Brought to His Knees-Tough Guys Laid Low By Love
Page 29
“I took a personal day. I wasn’t sure you’d be healed, so I figured I’d make arrangements to stick around.
“You didn’t have to do that.” I wish I’d known. I would have pushed my plans back a day, but I won’t now. Everything’s already arranged.
Kyle shrugs. “I have so much time off banked, I think HR was secretly thrilled I decided to use one day.”
Getting up from the couch, I walk into the kitchen and put my arms around his waist, leaning my body up against his. Each time I’ve tried to initiate sex over the last few days he’s put me off, but I won’t let him do it anymore. I rock my hips, rotating my cock against his ass. Kyle lets out a muffled groan.
“Vincent, give it one more day. You’re still sore.”
I dry–hump him, pushing my erection as hard as I can between his ass cheeks. “This is the part that’s really, really sore. If you want to make me feel better, I can think of a few things that’ll do the trick.”
“You’re bad. Stop it.” He sends me a fierce look over his shoulder. “I don’t want you hurt, okay?”
I back off, but not before I give his cock a squeeze, feeling it pulse against my palm. “You know this is a battle I won’t let you win, don’t you?”
He dries his hands and turns to face me. “I’m not taking responsibility for causing you pain.” Yep, there’s that hot PORC stare. I wonder if he knows what it does to me when he looks at me that way? “There’s always tomorrow.”
“Ee–hee?” I reach back and pull my shirt off over my head. “What’s wrong with today?”
“Vincent–”
Cop voice too. Irresistible. I start on my pants. “Nah, man. You can’t put me off. I’m so horny that if you don’t help me out, I’m going to stand right here and back my fist in front of you.”
I drop my shorts and step out of them, Kyle staring at me as if daring me to go ahead. “Does that mean what I think it does?”
“Probably. To put it into words you can understand–choke the chicken, spank the monkey, wank off…”
He puts up his hand to stop the catalogue of masturbatory terms. “I get it.” He’s trying really hard not to look at my cock as I push my boxer–briefs down. “You’re being stubborn.”
“Nah. I think that’s you.” I take my time wrapping my fingers around my erection, closing them almost one at a time. “I’m the one who was in the accident. I think I can tell when I’m well enough for sex, don’t you?”
“Shit,” he mutters.
I take that as agreement, and stroll toward him, still stroking myself with slow, long pulls of my hand. When I get to him, I lean in and kiss him, holding my body away from his so just our mouths touch. When I tease his lips with the tip of my tongue he exhales, and I pull the air into my lungs.
He says something against my mouth, but I can’t hear what it is and before I can pull back to ask his hands come up to cup my cheeks and he’s kissing me with the ferocity I love so much.
Finally I can ease back enough to say, “Upstairs.”
“Yes.” We’re both breathing hard, and he’s partially undressed, thanks to my wandering hands. He leans in and kisses me again, mumbling against my lips one more time, “Yes.”
We’re halfway up the steps when I realize this will be one of the last times I get to make love with Kyle, and I stumble slightly. One step behind me, he steadies me with a hand on my shoulder.
“You okay there?”
“Yeah.” I pause on the landing, let him step up to join me. “Just impatient. Makes me trip over my own feet.”
He laughs softly. “Come on then. Don’t stop when we’re this close.”
It’s only when we fall together onto the bed I get a sense of why Kyle hesitated. There’s a kind of leashed desperation to our lovemaking, as though he knows, just like I do, that what we have is almost over. Maybe he’s come to the same conclusion I have, but probably for a different reason. Before I can sort it out in my head, all thoughts disappear, and all I want to do is feel, savor, let the passion overtake me.
His skin is hot, already slick with perspiration, and I run my fingers over his arms and chest, down along the ridges of his stomach as we exchange long kisses, some hard, some softer and more coaxing. Although I don’t know which of us needs any encouragement. When he rolls me onto my back, I don’t try to avoid it, just let him.
Kyle kisses the remnant of the bruise on the left side of my mouth, then kisses along my scar. He’s never done that before, and I close my eyes, letting the sensation of his lips feathering over the puckered flesh seep into me. Then he softly touches his lips to the lump on my temple. My eyes prickle, and I keep them shut, not wanting him to see.
“Dammit, Vincent. You could’ve been hurt so much worse.”
“But I wasn’t,” I remind him. Nowhere as badly as it’ll hurt to leave him. “Don’t think about it.”
It’s like he’s trying to erase the memory of the accident, the way he touches me, as if he’s reassuring himself I’m actually there. Or maybe it’s just my imagination. All I know for sure is he’s driving me insane, licking and nipping and touching me all over. By the time the first breath wafts across the head of my cock, I’m a shivering, desperate mess. With his wide shoulders wedging my thighs open, one broad hand over my stomach as if to hold me in place, he lifts his gaze to meet mine. Then he presses the flat of his tongue to the underside of my dick and slides it up to just beneath the crown. With a couple of flicks he teases the tendon, before slicking up to swipe around the entire head, gathering the pre–come that’s collected there.
He hums, presses his lips flush to the tip of my cock. My legs jerk and my back arches, my entire body streaked with electric arousal, the anticipation of being engulfed by the heat of his mouth shuddering through me. When he circles the glans with his tongue again, the tip finding the underside of the ultra–sensitive ridge, goose bumps fire across my chest, down my chest and arms.
It’s torture, the way he takes his time, parting his lips a little at a time to take me into his mouth in small, hot increments. When my cock is in halfway, he swivels his head slightly, so the upper side of the head rubs against his palate and his tongue caresses the underside. I’m trembling almost uncontrollably. Maybe it’s the knowledge that I won’t have this again after today that ramps my arousal so high, so fast, but whatever it is, I know I won’t last long.
Reaching down, I put my hands on his cheeks, tugging. I don’t want to come this way. I want him in me, now. His eyelids lift, and I meet his gaze. I don’t know what he sees in my expression–in my eyes–but whatever it is has him moving up my body, until he’s lying above me, our gazes still locked.
“I need you.”
I’ve never believed myself to be a particularly emotional man. There’ve been times when I’ve cared about no one and nothing, and that felt like the only reality I’d ever know. Now I realize it’s because I’d just never known anyone like Kyle–didn’t know Kyle–before. His hard voice, the sparking eyes and firm hands on my face all fill me with the kind of emotions I never knew I could experience. I wrap my arms around the slick, muscular body pressing against mine, and it all makes me smile despite the pain inside. I make my voice light, because if I let any of my feelings out, I’ll make a fool of myself.
“What you waiting for then? Permission?” I lock my legs around his and rock my pelvis. The flush on Kyle’s cheeks deepens as I tease. “Do I need to write you a note? Give you directions?”
He doesn’t smile but, instead, nods slightly. “Permission.”
I know what he wants, and that this time I won’t say no.
“You got it.”
Without taking his eyes off my face, he kneels and reaches for a condom. I sit up too, and take the packet from his hand. I’m rock steady as I tear it open and then roll the latex over his cock, but inside there’s a part of me that’s terrified. But I won’t back down. I owe this to myself, and to Kyle, and it’ll be one more memory for the lonely nights to come. I reach back for the lub
e, take my time putting some on him–enjoying the way his breathing gets heavier with each twist of my hand–before handing him the bottle.
Then I lie back, with Kyle still kneeling between my thighs. I leave one leg canted to the side, the other foot flat on the bed, making it clear I’m waiting for him to position me however he wants, do whatever he want to me. There’s no expression on his face, and his eyes are so dark they’re like mirrors. When he finally touches me, running his fingers along my thigh to my knee, I realize his hand is shaking. He guides my leg up, his gaze still on my face, and, just like that, I’m open to him, completely vulnerable, insanely aroused, totally ready.
He glances down to position himself, then his eyes snap back to my face as he pushes into me with slow, determined pressure. I want to close my eyes, savor the pleasure/pain, but I don’t. He wants to watch me, and I want to remember how he looks as he does. My breath catches just at that point where the head gets all the way in, and his brows contract but he doesn’t let up. I shift my hips, wanting more, and he groans, his lips drawn slightly back, exposing clenched teeth.
Stroking, going deeper each time, he works his cock in up to the root, then pauses. His chest is heaving, the muscles of his stomach twitching each time he inhales. I don’t want to wait, the need to feel him moving inside me overwhelming every other impulse. Using his grip on me for leverage, I roll my hips and smile at his reaction–a bone–deep shudder, the tightening of his fingers, the sparks that seem to flicker in his gaze.
“Don’t…”
My smile turns to breathless laughter. I can’t help it. Being with him makes me happy, even when it’s breaking my heart. I roll my hips again, and say, “Dance with me.”
I think he laughs too, although it comes out more like a growl. “Yeah,” he says, withdrawing almost all the way. “Oh, yeah.”
A strong thrust. Then another. A shift of position, hooking his elbows behind my knees so he can lie right over me, his hands planted on the mattress on either side of my shoulders, his face right above mine. I’m pretty much immobilized, but I don’t care. Putting my arms around his neck, I lift my head to kiss him, sucking on his lower lip, his tongue, swallowing the sexy noises that rise from his throat. Then he’s pumping hard, and my head drops back onto the pillow, as he finds a rhythm that leaves me groaning and cursing and arching to get closer.
“Like that, babe?” It’s like his cop voice–unyielding, stating even when asking–but with an edge I don’t recognise. “Tell me if that’s it…right…there.”
I can’t answer. The pressure in my balls is reaching critical mass, the need to come building and building with every thrust, every slide of his sweat–slick belly over my cock, until I’m twisting beneath him, fighting to hold back, yet unable to stop the rise.
“I wanna see you come.” The words sound forced out, fierce and yet pleading at the same time. “Come for me, Vincent.”
There is no resistance left in me where Kyle is concerned. He demands and I comply. It’s as simple and as complicated and as just–so–fucking–good as that. I think I shout his name but I’m not sure, because my pulse is drumming in my ears and my body feels as though it’s being turned inside out with the intensity of my orgasm. And he’s still fucking me, so the pleasure doesn’t just explode and then wane, but stretches on and on, as the stimulation keeps bombarding my system.
“Shit,” he groans, the long, hammering thrusts stuttering to a short, deep, fractured beat that tells me he’s on the edge now too. “Vincent, I–”
You what? I wonder, as he shudders above me, every muscle locked and shaking. But I don’t ask, just hold on tight, memorizing exactly how it feels to be with him, glad I took the chance, yet wishing I didn’t care so much, so we could make what we have last.
Kyle
During summer I usually try to go for my run before 6:30 in the morning, so as to avoid the heat and humidity, but this morning I get a late start. That’s what happens when I wake up to Vincent blowing me. There’s no way I’m going to turn that down in favor of exercise. So it’s almost 8:00 a.m. before I head out. Standing outside on the driveway, I do some stretches, then look up at the bedroom window before I start off. I’m pretty sure I see a shadow behind the half–closed blinds, but when I lift my hand and wave there’s no movement, so maybe I’m wrong.
The last couple mornings I’d taken Bongo running with me but it’s too hot for him today and, although I hate to admit it, I miss his company as I jog along. He’s the perfect companion, inquisitive but obedient, loving but not in my face all the time. I actually hate the thought of him going back to the sanctuary, although I know Pat takes good care of him there.
I hate it almost as much as the thought of Vincent leaving, going back to that cramped basement apartment. The thought of us going back to the sporadic visits, the juggling of schedules. Me not knowing what he’s doing, worrying about where he is, when I’ll see him again. Coming home to a house that feels lifeless without his presence.
Last night we crossed a barrier I’d begun to suspect would never be breached, and my heart kicks into high gear when I remember looking down into Vincent’s face, seeing the arousal morph to need and then to pleasure as we made love. The expression in his eyes made me feel humble and heroic–the last of which is stupid, I know, but how I felt. It made me want to see him look at me like that every day, hear him laugh every day, laugh with him in the way only he can make me.
As I pound down the gravel road, I work it all out. It’s not unusual for people to have roommates. No one knows that I’d bought my house with an inheritance from my grandfather. If Vincent moved in, everyone would just assume it was because I wanted help with my mortgage and no one would bat an eye. He could save the money he pays for rent and go back to school. Get that Master’s Degree he wants. We could even keep Bongo. It would be perfect.
No, not perfect, but close. As close as we could get. And there was something in his eyes last night that tells me he won’t turn me down.
By the time I sprint back to the house, I have it all worked out in my head and have to force myself to do my cool–down exercises, instead of going straight into the house to lay the plan out to Vincent.
When I go inside and see him sitting on the couch, Bongo’s head in his lap, I grin. But then I notice his duffle bag and laptop case near the kitchen island and my stomach drops, the smile sliding off my face when I take in his carefully blank expression.
“Hey.” I’m already in PORC mode, and I don’t even know what’s going on yet. He can’t just leave. He doesn’t have a car. I’m probably misreading. I gesture to the bags anyway. “What’s this?”
His gaze goes to the bags and then comes back to mine. “I’m heading out in a few. Jenalyza’s coming to get me.”
Now it feels like my blood’s being crystalized into ice, the heat generated by my run dissipating so fast it makes me want to shiver. “Why?”
“I can’t stay here, Kyle.” He takes a deep breath, seems to hold it for a moment. Bongo whines softly, and Vincent’s fingers smooth over the dog’s head, but I doubt he can relieve the tension. Not in the dog, not in the room. Not in me. Vincent exhales and his lips twist, but I don’t see any mockery or laughter in the movement. Just sadness. “I can’t live like this with you.”
Like how? I want to ask, but I know what he means, and there’s nothing I can say. Nothing. Then he says it anyway, and I wish I didn’t have to hear it.
“I know how you feel. I don’t blame you for wanting to hold on to what you have, believe me, I don’t. I’ve been there.” Vincent rubs the back of his neck, and I see the stress in his shoulders, the set of his head and neck. “But I can’t go back into the closet with you. I’ve already come out. I claimed the freedom and the life I’d been denying myself. For me to go back to hiding, to living a lie…”
His eyes are moist, and I almost wish mine were too. But all I am is cold. Too cold to react, to argue, to really feel.
“I get it.” I hardly r
ecognize that hard voice as my own. It’s not my cop voice. There’s no life in it–no power or demand. It’s stiff, stone dead. “Yeah. I understand.”
There’s the sound of a car coming along the road and Vincent glances at his watch. When it turns into my driveway, he gets up. Bongo jumps off the couch, and Vincent tells him to stay. Obedient as ever, the dog does, although his expression as he watches Vincent walk away exhibits all the confusion and sadness I wish I could express but can’t.
As he picks up his bags, Vincent says, “Sorry to leave you with Bongo. Call Pat and I’m sure she’ll come collect him.” Then he stops and looks at me. “You say you understand, Kyle, but I don’t think you do.” He swallows, then rubs his fist beneath his nose. “If I didn’t care, I could do this. If I could just think of you as a fuck–buddy, it would be okay.” Facing me head–on, he says, “But I’m in love with you, so this can’t work anymore. It hurts too much. It’ll get harder and harder to just be a secret part of your life when I want more than you can give. I’ll end up hating you, just as you’d end up hating me if you came out and things went badly for you at work, with your family.” He takes a deep, shuddering breath. “When I first came here, to Canada, I thought I’d be free, but for a long time I wasn’t. I was trapped, because I couldn’t face myself. You helped me to see that, and now I can’t go back. I know the strikes against you, Kyle, and I’m sorry there’s no way out. Sorry there’s no way for this to work for us.”
I thought I was cold before, but it’s like I’ve turned to a block of ice. I can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t speak. He’s turning toward the door, and I want to ask him to stay, to talk the situation through, but I know there’s nothing I can say to counteract the reality of what he’s said.
But he’s in love with me…
Then the screen door slams shut, followed by a car door. An engine fires up. The car backs up, turns, drives around and down the driveway, gravel crunching under the tires. It’s only when all sounds fade, and the silence of the house settles on me like a weight, that I start to feel again.